by Sala, Sharon
“And yet you didn’t recognize him?”
She shook her head. “No, as I said, the cap brim hid most of his face.”
“Would you recognize him again if you saw him?”
“I don’t know.... I doubt it.”
“Too bad. Okay, then. I’ll file this report and notify the authorities at Queens Crossing. If you remember anything else, don’t hesitate to call.”
“All right, and thank you.”
“Yes, ma’am, and again, you really are something. Mind if I ask you a personal question?”
Nola frowned. “It’s okay, I guess.”
“What happened to your wrists? They’re bloody and bandaged, and I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to you in the flood to cause those injuries.”
She glanced down at the bandages, then back up at his face.
“I was sick when I went up the tree. I tied myself to it because I was afraid I’d pass out and drown.”
Carroll’s expression shifted. “You were sick? Do you think you might have been hallucinating?”
Nola’s anger was instantaneous. “Oh, my God, no, I didn’t imagine it. If this is the best you can do, get out! I’ll tell the police myself when I get home, and in the meantime if they fish any more bodies out of the flood, you can blame your damn self.”
“I didn’t—”
“I’m through talking to you! Get out!”
Carroll sighed. “Rest assured I will file the report, Miss Landry. I hope you get well soon.”
* * *
When she folded her arms across her chest, Carroll knew she was done with him. He didn’t know what he thought about the story, but he was obligated to report a witness statement regarding a murder, real or only marginally possible.
He drove back to the department, still doubting most of her story, and was at his desk writing up the interview when his captain came in and began tossing copies of a report on everyone’s desk.
“Heads up, everyone. We just got a fax from the parish police in Queens Crossing. They’ve got seven dead bodies, all of whom were killed with a single gunshot. No suspects, but they were all killed with a pistol, probably the same pistol.”
Carroll looked up in disbelief. “You’re kidding!”
“No, I’m not kidding. Why?”
“I just took a report from one of the flood victims they brought in to Tidewater. She claims to have witnessed three people being murdered.”
“Holy shit! Did she know them? Did she give any names?”
“Yes. Said they were her neighbors. Just a sec, I have the names in my notes.” He thumbed through the pages, then paused. “Here they are. Whitman Lewis, Candy Lewis, Ruth Andrews.”
The captain’s eyes widened. “Those names are on the list.”
Carroll’s pulse kicked. “We’ve got ourselves a witness, and get this. She said the killer was wearing a uniform like the ones from her parish.”
“A cop? The killer is a cop?”
“That’s what she said.”
“Finish that report and fax it to Queens Crossing ASAP.”
“Yes, sir,” Carroll said, and made a mental apology to Nola Landry for doubting anything she’d said.
* * *
The killer’s first victim had been in Dubuque, Iowa, after a tornado had swept through the town. When rescue workers began finding bodies with bullet holes, rather than wounds from storm damage, it didn’t make sense. The police immediately knew they’d been murdered and began looking for a connection between them. But other than the fact that they’d lived through the storm before they were killed, there was none. News of the murders hit the papers, and all of a sudden the FBI was in Dubuque.
Special agents Tate Benton, Wade Luckett and Cameron Winger caught the case and had been following the killer’s trail ever since. The next time he struck was after another storm hit. And the third time was in Omaha after a local flood in Missouri. Once it became apparent that his killings occurred directly after weather-related events, the media, being the media, dubbed him the Stormchaser.
During the past two months, the killer had begun taunting the agents through the media, mocking their inability to catch him and blaming them for the deaths.
Tate Benton’s specialty was profiling, and he had picked up on the messages as being part of the killer’s need to prove his superiority.
One of their first breakthroughs was figuring out that he didn’t strike until after the Red Cross arrived. After clearing the actual Red Cross workers of any guilt, it led the team to suspect he was hiding among the hundreds of volunteers who came with any disaster, and that by working to assist, he was nullifying the sins of murder by helping minister to the ones he spared.
When the Mississippi River began to flood, the Stormchaser struck again, this time in Natchez, Mississippi. They were still working that scene when Special Agent Wade Luckett pulled into the parking lot of the Natchez Police Department and got out. His steps were hurried as he strode through the lobby, then down a hallway to the room that had become their field office. When he walked in, Tate Benton was on the computer and Cameron Winger was on the phone.
They both looked up.
“We have bodies in Louisiana,” Wade said.
Tate frowned. “Damn. We were afraid of that. He’s moving downriver with the flood. Where’s the location?”
Wade hesitated, knowing this was going to be an issue for Tate.
“Queens Crossing.”
A muscle jerked at the side of Tate’s mouth. “Son of a bitch. How many?” he asked.
Wade glanced at the report. “Seven so far. The victims are male and female, no specific ages, and each of them dead from a single gunshot. The ballistics reports aren’t in yet, but it’s our man.”
Cameron Winger ended his phone call and looked at Tate. “What’s the issue with Queens Crossing?”
Tate’s expression was grim. “I grew up there. Still have friends and family there. Do you have the names of the deceased?”
Wade glanced at his notes. “Yes.”
“Can I see them?”
Tate took the list and scanned it quickly, relieved there was no one named Landry or Benton.
“How bad is the flooding?” he asked.
“At last count, twenty feet above flood level, and the river has yet to peak,” Wade said.
Tate knew the location of Nola Landry’s home and knew without question, it would be gone. It was bad enough that she and her mother would have lost everything. He didn’t even want to think that they could have drowned. The last memory he had of her, she’d been crying and he’d been the cause. He sat down with a thump.
Wade frowned. “What?”
Tate shook his head, unwilling to get into specifics.
“I was just thinking about what-all has been lost and who might have died with it. So when are we leaving?”
“As soon as we can pack up,” Wade said.
Cameron began gathering up his notes.
“I’ll tell the Natchez police we’re leaving,” Wade said.
“We’ll meet you in the parking lot,” Tate said.
Two hours later they were on their way south to Queens Crossing and getting a firsthand look at the spreading devastation. It was midafternoon when they arrived to find a town in disaster mode.
The Red Cross was set up in the high school gymnasium. People who had been displaced by the flooding had not only lost their belongings but their homes, as well. Most of them had escaped with only what they could carry, and there were cars and trucks in a line outside the building, dropping off donations of what appeared to be food and clothing.
Tate searched the faces as they drove past, startled that there were so few he recognized, then remembered the place would be full of volunteers—one of whom
could possibly be their killer.
“Hey, Tate, where is the police department, and will it be local or county?” Cameron asked.
“You’re in Louisiana, remember? So it’s parish, not county, and the law here will be local. Unless he’s been replaced, the chief’s name is Beaudry. Take a left at the bank and go down two blocks. It’ll be the gray two-story building on the right.”
“Two stories? That’s a big building for a small town.”
“It used to be the courthouse. The morgue is in the basement. The jail is on the first floor and offices are on the second.”
“Got it,” Cameron said.
A couple of minutes later they pulled up in the parking lot. When they got out, Tate led the way inside. He didn’t recognize the officer at the desk and pulled out his ID.
“Special Agent Benton, FBI, and these are my partners, Luckett and Winger. We need to speak to the chief.”
“Chief Beaudry is downstairs in the morgue,” the officer said. “I’ll let him know you’re here.”
“We’ll meet him there. Just tell him we’re on our way down.”
The officer frowned. “Wait, you don’t know where—”
“I know the way,” Tate said.
He skipped the elevator and took the stairs two at a time, with Wade and Cameron right behind him.
“You’ve been down in the morgue?” Cameron asked.
Tate nodded. “My dad is the parish coroner. If they’re doing autopsies, he’ll be here.”
“We’ve been partners for five years and I didn’t know this,” Wade muttered.
Tate shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m not the favorite son, okay?”
“Ouch,” Wade said. “Sorry.”
Tate paused outside the main door, eyeing his partners. “It really has nothing to do with me. I just got caught in the middle of a thing between him and my mom.”
“That’s tough,” Cameron said.
“It is what it is, and I’m telling you now only because my presence will probably impact his attitude.”
Wade frowned. “Hell of a deal to put you in the middle of their troubles.”
Tate shrugged it off and went in one door as Chief Beaudry entered the reception area from the other direction. The agents flashed their badges and made quick introductions.
Beaudry glanced at Tate. “I remember you. You’re Don Benton’s son, aren’t you?”
“That’s what my birth certificate says,” Tate said. “Is he here?”
Beaudry nodded. “He’s doing an autopsy on the last body, although the bullet hole in his head looked pretty conclusive to me.”
“You have firm IDs on all the bodies?” Tate asked.
“Yes, and they’re all locals. It’s sickening. Even though we found all of them in the floodwaters, none of them drowned. Is it true you think this is the work of that guy they call the Stormchaser?”
“It looks that way. Can we see them?” Tate asked.
“Yes, come with me.”
Even though Tate was bracing himself for his father’s antagonism, he was unprepared when, the moment they walked into the autopsy room, the familiar odors sent him into a free fall of memories—all of them painful. When he saw his father’s face for the first time in eight years, he was startled. Don Benton had gotten old.
His father spoke without looking up.
“You know I don’t like visitors in here, Beaudry.”
“We’re not visitors, Dad. We’re working this case.”
Don Benton froze at the sound of Tate’s voice and then slowly lifted his head.
It was hard to tell what he was thinking, but Tate stood his ground.
“These are my partners, Special agents Winger and Luckett. We’re working the Stormchaser murders. Do you mind if we take a look at the bodies?”
Tate could see his father struggling with the urge to argue, but his professionalism won out.
“Look, but don’t touch. They’re in drawers one through six.”
Tate moved across the room and, one by one, pulled out the bodies to confirm their suspicions. Each one had a single bullet wound in the head.
“Excuse me, Doctor Benton, but have you recovered any bullets?” Cameron asked.
“Four were through-and-throughs, and three were not. I’ve already turned those over to the parish police,” Benton said.
“We sent them off to Ballistics,” Beaudry said.
Cameron nodded. “We have some comparisons with us. Let us know when you get results.”
They moved to the autopsy in progress.
Tate had seen the process a hundred times, and yet it never failed to amaze him how doctors could be so skilled in the inner working of the human body that they could determine cause of death by what they saw.
“Are there any surprises here?” he asked.
Don Benton paused and looked up. “Other than you?”
Tate’s face was expressionless.
Don shrugged. “If you’re referring to the cause of death, then no, there are no surprises. This man died from a single gunshot wound to the head, although I would venture a guess that, judging by his enlarged liver, he had less than a year to live.”
Tate heard the quaver in his father’s voice and knew he was shocked by his arrival. So be it. He’d shocked Tate eight years ago when he’d rejected his existence.
Tate stared him down. “We’ll be needing copies of all seven of the autopsies—at your convenience, of course. Chief Beaudry, if you’d escort us to where the Red Cross is set up, we will need to get names and contact info on anyone who’s not a local.”
Beaudry frowned. “Are you saying that the killer is someone in the Red Cross?”
Tate frowned. “No, and don’t put words in my mouth, understand? If you would lead the way in your car, we’ll follow. You can make the necessary introductions to whoever’s in charge, and we’ll take it from there.”
Beaudry frowned. He didn’t like being called down by anybody, but solving seven murders in their little town was out of his league, and he knew it.
Cameron saw the tension in Tate’s shoulders and a similar stiffness in his father’s manner, and wondered what the hell could have happened to cause their antagonism. Still, he gave Benton a courteous nod. “Sorry to interrupt you, Doctor Benton. Thank you for your information.”
“You’re welcome,” Don Benton said, and just like that, he put them out of his mind as they walked out the door.
* * *
It didn’t take long for the agents to get yet another field office set up. Beaudry gave them his only interrogation room, and after a quick visit to the gym, they had a list of Red Cross employees on the premises, and were running the name through their database to make sure they were cleared to be there. As for getting a list of the names of volunteers, it wasn’t going to be that simple. They were coming and going with such a rapid turnover that the Red Cross officials on site had lost track days ago.
The men worked until after midnight, and with no motels or empty rooms available anywhere in town, they sacked out on some cots in a corner of the gymnasium with the other refugees. Tate could have asked his father to put them up. Lord knows the old Benton house had room to spare, but he didn’t have the stomach to withstand his father’s anger. Plus, he was afraid his father would bring up his mother’s name, which would have been his tipping point, and the man was too old to fight.
Tate was still awake long after Cameron and Wade had gone to sleep, thinking of Nola and wondering if she was married. Finally he fell asleep from sheer exhaustion.
Babies cried throughout the night, disgruntled by the unfamiliar surroundings. People snored, some cried. Tempers were short, with the occasional argument popping up, followed by tears or angry silence.
* * *
/> Along toward morning Cameron opened his eyes to find a little girl about the age of three standing near his elbow. He had no idea how long she’d been standing there watching him sleep. Her hair had been in a ponytail, but during the night it had slid sideways until the ponytail was drooping somewhere between her right ear and her chin. Her clothes were a couple of sizes too big, which probably meant everything her family once had was gone and she was wearing donated clothing. She was also minus shoes, and had one sock on and the other one in her hand.
He rose up on one elbow and looked around to see if anyone was up and searching for a child, but everyone within sight was asleep. He grinned. They probably didn’t even know she was gone. He swung his legs off the cot, and then leaned forward with his elbows on his knees.
“Hey, honey. What’s your name?”
“Twicia.”
“Need some help with that sock?” he asked.
She nodded and handed it to him. He slipped it on her bare foot and then gave her knee a quick pat.
“Where’s your mama?”
She poked a thumb in her mouth and blinked.
“Are you lost?”
She nodded.
He got up, wincing at the cold floor on his bare feet, then picked her up in his arms.
“How about we go find her, okay?”
She nodded again, still sucking her thumb.
Cameron made his way between the cots and sleeping bags, taking care as to where he stepped as he headed toward the only light in the place, a small office the Red Cross had set up near the door. By the time he got there the little girl had laid her head on his shoulder and was almost back asleep.
He saw a pretty young woman dozing in an old recliner on the other side of the desk and frowned. He hated to disturb her, but it was better for her to wake up now than to put the baby’s mother in a panic when she realized her child was gone.
“Excuse me,” he said softly.
The woman sat up with a jerk, blinking rapidly and obviously trying to gather her senses.
“Sorry to wake you,” Cameron said. “But I woke up with this little elf standing by my cot. I don’t know who she belongs to, but I’d sure hate for her mama to wake up in a panic.”